


Summersong

by Zigzagwanderer



Series: And The Wanting Comes In Waves [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 06:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15430953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigzagwanderer/pseuds/Zigzagwanderer
Summary: Sequel to 'O I Long to Feel My arms Around You', which was about Bill, a student, and his college Professor H Lecter. The Professor has taken his comatose sister to Crete for the summer, while he works on a biography. Bill goes too.There probably will be more of this series.  Just want to say thank you to everyone who read the first one!! You are all so kind and willing to try stuff!! Glorious fandom!!





	Summersong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FhimeChan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FhimeChan/gifts), [Cinnamaldeide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/gifts).



It is hot. It is August. The damp-leaved campus is ancient to them now. Dust-sheeted. Sealed as a long-shelved book. 

The townhouse library is a myth which explains them but does not define them. Not anymore.

The Professor and his protege have been staying at the villa for a number of weeks. 

A palmful. A basketful. 

Eternity enough, for them to be sure. 

Like light on stacked stone is sure; blind-walled white, blinding against the hard, herbed scrub of the coastal path that leads to the convent. The two are living sheltered from the salt-wind, in company only with the cry of sea-birds. 

“Please. I can’t stand it.”

The room is just the rough wooden bed, sweating splinters with the use it has been put to. 

Bill grips the horizontal, harder. 

With both wrists above his head.

With both wrists wrung, and cording.

The Christ they have inherited has been carved with adoring eyes, pinned out against the plaster. He watches as noonday skims in across the bay, a white pebble falling forever. 

It slides in, across the throat, the hooked knees, the flexed foot.

Across the other man’s spine and shoulders and elbows. 

“I want it,” Bill trembles. “Please. Don’t stop.”

Professor Lecter does not stop.

He does not praise.

He does not touch Bill, except for inside.

He fills him with love. Wet, and knuckled. 

And there is no threshold to it. Once Bill is full, there is always more, further, fuller. 

Wetter, tighter, deeper.

“Please,” Bill pleads. “Just a little more. I can take a little more. Please. I want it. I want it.”

And love is the weight of the light, the sharp-rock breakwater, the sea. 

In the belly. With the teeth. Tiding, the plunging pain of want. 

“I love you, my sweet, clever boy,” Hannibal says, soft as the down in the cliffside nests. “I love you, o my endless one. My joy.”

“Please, then, please me. Please now. Hard. Just there.”

Hannibal bows his head, commanded. He swallows at the sight of it all. The wetness of the sea. The bone of the land. He would be both, for Bill. 

“I want to die like this,” Bill murmurs, both burning and quenched.

And so, with his back a slant, and Hannibal in him, he does.

 

They read the proofs that Hannibal is editing, in their stiffening sheets, _after_. 

Or, as it seems to be, more truthfully, _before_.

The steps down to the edge of the bluff are always cool; Bill shivers and looks at Hannibal as he makes the sounds of a poem. The sounds are fingers, they make a column of him. They scrape the place between his lungs, they cup his heart and between his legs.

“Later..?” Bill flutters the papers away. Leans in. 

His voice is a rising, falling request. His mouth a swell. He kisses, and kisses. He is destroying in his gentleness. “Please? I know I’m sore, but take me, again? Later? Want to be yours again.” 

Hannibal is without mercy, but he is also without the power to refuse.

“Let us eat, first.” He rubs a slow circle upon Bill’s breast, palm flat. “I fear you grow thin.”

“I don’t want to go out.”

Bill takes off Hannibal’s glasses. He has broken them twice. 

Bill has mended them with surgical tape, borrowed from the nuns that are caring for Mischa. 

“I fished while you were away in town this morning,” he persuades. “And we have lemons, and wine. And Sister Carita’s bread.”

“Promise that you will come with me to the office tomorrow, then. I miss you. And I want you to be a part of the book. We can look at the illustrations together.”

Bill nods, biting down on his lip. “Ok.”

He lets Hannibal sink backwards, buckled over the cold, white stone.

And Bill uncovers where Hannibal’s skin is starting to tan, and where it is not yet sun-found, and where Hannibal is flushed like red fruit, ripe for Bill’s tongue.

“Feed me, then,” Bill says sweetly, and makes Hannibal die too.


End file.
